The Glass Butterfly
by aranenumenesse
Summary: She was like a glass butterfly.   Rogan. Contains dark themes.


"Is this some kind of a joke?" He stared at the girl in front of him. She huffed and looked at him with exasperated look on her face.

"You often hear people joking about these things?" She asked. He narrowed his eyes. He had no idea of what kind of a game she was playing, and he hated not knowing things.

"No. People don't joke about these things with me, because they know me well enough to know that I take my work with certain pride and seriousness. Fuck off, kid. Go and play with dolls or something…" He hissed, turning his back, leaning against the bar and taking a sip from his already rapidly warming beer.

When a hand landed on his forearm and tugged his sleeve he discarded his beer, dark scowl creeping over his features.

"That better not be you, kid…" He growled, turning around and letting out an annoyed snort when his eyes met her steady gaze.

"I do not joke. I need you to do this. I… It's… This has already gone too far. It has to end before something worse happens."

He leaned his back against the bar, balancing himself with his elbows and tilted his head, taking in her appearance. Small. Tiny. Exhausted. Clothed in rags. Bright, big and brown eyes peeking from under thick veil of equally brown hair. Skin probably flashing ivory under the grayish hue, grit and grime that hung over her battered features. She smelt like she was starving. She was sick, and would probably fold over herself, curl up and die without an intervention. Why the hell he should bother?

"I have money! I can pay you," she assured hastily, her hand disappearing in to the pocket of the tattered green cloak she wore. He bit his lip when she fished out crumpled bills and petty change, trying not to laugh. She was serious. This small broken pixie wanted him to do her in, was even prepared to pay for it.

"Okay. You got yourself a deal. But not in here…" He whispered, urging her to stash his pitiful reward back in to the pocket and started pushing her out from the bar in front of him.

* * *

Once outside the blistering cold wind attacked them, throwing her against him as if she weighed nothing. He grasped her before she fell on her butt, noticing how his fingers met almost nothing but bone through the thick layer of clothes she had on. She regained her balance through immense effort that left her shaking.

"What the hell do you even need me for? Few more days and you'd croak on your own!" He grunted when they were seated in his truck, fiddling with the heater, hating how the coldness turned the joints of his fingers stiff and rigid.

"They… They need me. They won't let me die. As soon as I fall, they'll come for me and bring me back to life again."

"How it will be different when I ki… when I do it?" He asked.

"I was hoping they wouldn't find my body this time…"

"What? You want me to burn you? Chop you up and scatter the pieces?" He asked, mortified but at the same time greatly amused.

"I don't care what you do after… Just make sure that I'm really gone. And… Does it hurt?" She asked, her huge eyes fixed to his. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you want it to?" He asked. She shook her head. He shrugged again.

"I'll make it quick. You won't feel a thing."

They drove in silence. He figured that there was no rush. She had made her decision, and from the smell of things she hadn't made it lightly. He kept his eyes on the road, but kept glancing her from the corner of his eye. Such a tiny creature.

"Marie," she suddenly whispered. He grunted questioningly.

"My name's Marie."

"Doesn't matter," he huffed, strangely irritated all of a sudden.

"Sorry. Just… Just wanted somebody to know before…" She sighed before falling to silence again. Minutes ticked by and his uneasiness kept escalating until he couldn't take it anymore.

"My name's Logan," he blurted out, just to break the tension. She flashed him a brief smile.

"You haven't spoken that out loud for a long time."

"You can tell?" He asked.

"It sounded like you were going to say something else at first. It's okay. You don't have to… If you don't want me to know your real name, it's okay," she spoke with quiet voice.

"It is. Logan's my real name."

"It's a good name. I like it better than the Wolverine."

"Yeah. Me too. Listen… Are you in a hurry?" He asked. She glanced at him perplexed look falling over her features.

"I was thinking I could stop by… There's a truck stop not much further ahead. Small motel and a diner. We could get something to eat and… And you could get yourself ready for… Uh… Shit." He shook his head. For a moment she just stared at him, then nodded.

"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

* * *

He paced nervously in front of the closed door of the bathroom. Behind that door the shower was running, and he could smell the faint scent of soap, sweat and dirt as she was washing herself. Small store tucked at the back of the gas station hadn't been exactly Harrods but he had managed to find some decent shampoo, soap and other necessities, even clean T-shirt and a pair of jeans he figured would fit her.

He sat on the bed when the shower was turned off and listened her humming and the soft scrape of the towel sliding over her skin. She sounded and smelt contended. She was going to get what she wanted. He was going to get paid and get an excuse to unleash his feral nature for few moments. So why was he getting second thoughts already?

When the door opened she stood on the steaming doorway, oversized T-shirt tied to a knot little above her bellybutton, jeans he had thought fit riding low on her hips since he hadn't realized to buy a belt to keep them up and her long hair twirled to a messy bun on top of her head. He swallowed and let his eyes roam over her, memorizing every curve and protruding bone. Auschwitz-chic. Hollow cheeks, dark rims around her eyes and sharply jutting hipbones. It wouldn't be a hit. It would be a fucking euthanasia.

"Ready to go?" He asked standing up.

"Uh… Did you get me any socks?" She asked. He scrunched his forehead, then remembered stuffing them to his breast pocket since his hands had been full already. He fished them out and handed them to her. She walked to the bed little unsteadily and sat down. Leaned forward to pull the socks on, and nearly toppled over. He grasped her shoulder, wincing when he felt the sharp shape of the joint under his fingers.

"Let me do that," he said, pushing her back on to the bed and taking the socks from her, sliding them carefully over her delicate feet, resisting the urge to kiss her fragile-looking ankles.

* * *

She was like a glass butterfly. Easily broken. Entering and exiting his life in a matter of seconds. And when she stood facing him in the crisp Canadian wilderness, her hair whipping around in the freezing breeze she was smiling. Thanking him for everything he had done even when his claws tore through her ribcage, piercing the fluttering heart and severing her spinal cord. 


End file.
